Forever On A Winter's Eve
by Novus Ordo Seclorum
Summary: After weeks without word from April, Donatello goes to her to apologize and set things right. But before he gets the chance, forces beyond his control stand in his way. 2k12 Universe. Set prior to "Target: April O'Neil." Rated T for language.
1. Part I

**Author's Note:** I've had this plotline rattling around in my head for a while and it has taken me a great deal of time to write it out properly. Aside from being my second TMNT fic (2k12verse, set prior to "Target: April O'Neil"), it marks a return to writing in third person perspective for me. Generally, I am more comfortable in first person, but I believe that challenging yourself is imperative. Also, as my ideas have a tendency of growing beyond my initial vision, I have—yet again—decided to break this work into two chapters for the sake of readability. That being said, I hope you enjoy the story!

* * *

_Dedicated to Terraform. She knows the reasons why._

Forever on a Winter's Eve

"Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable." – L. Frank Baum, _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_

"You must allow April to return in her own time…"

Master Splinter's words ricocheted in Donatello's mind as he soldered an array of wires to a circuit board. Another week had come and gone without word from April and he began to worry that she would never forgive them. Though he tried to keep her from his thoughts, she crept in regularly: the look of despair upon her face when she saw her father—his leathery wings spread wide, his scythe-like talons fully extended; the desperation in her voice as she begged them to do no harm; how her eyes burned with rage when she discovered they were responsible, like smoldering coals stoked to an inferno. That night was one of the worst he could remember and the days since limped by, each more listless than the last.

Lost in thought, he failed to notice a bead of molten metal slithering down the circuit board until it made contact with his thumb. His nerves howled in pain; he responded with a startled gasp and a string of expletives. He ran the burn under cold water and looked it over. It glared back—bright red, the foundation of a fluid-filled blister forming at its center. He cursed himself for being absent-minded and returned to his lab to continue working, but when he examined the board he knew it was ruined. Frustrated, he threw it against the wall; copper wire and shards of plastic rained down around him. With a sigh, he sat at his workbench and hung his head.

Everyone kept telling him that time and space were the common denominators; that through their application, April's battered soul would mend. But the longer he waited, the more restless he became. Perhaps it was because guilt was devouring him from within like an insatiable beast; perhaps it was because without her, his world seemed cold and colorless; or perhaps it was because by nature he was a man of action: if something needed fixing, he made the necessary repairs; if a wound needed attention, he cleaned, stitched, and bandaged it; and if his intellect could solve a problem or ease a burden, he devoted himself to the cause. Whatever the reason, he decided that he could wait no longer. He needed to see her. He needed to try to make things right.

He trudged from his lab to the common area, his legs stiff from disuse. His presence, however, did not go unnoticed. Raphael peeled his eyes away from the latest issue of _The Walking Dead_; the corners of his mouth tugged into a wry smile.

"Good news, Leo." He chuckled. "He lives! You can call off the search party."

Leonardo delivered a final forceful blow to the heavy bag in the far corner of the room, turned, and whisked the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

"Donnie, you've been holed up in your lab for almost two days. Is everything alright?"

Donatello strove to be as honest as possible. He believed truth promoted trust; that speaking one's mind kept life's minor irritations from leading to conflicts. But when it came to his relationship with April, he took exception to the policy. The truth can be unkind; it can wound just as quickly as a lie—and doubly deep. He chose, instead, to evade the cause of his sorrow and focus on the superficial.

"The project I've been working on hit a bit of a rough patch." He shook his head in disgust. "It's a total loss. What a disaster…"

"No worries, Donnie." Raphael quipped from behind his book. "It couldn't be any worse than 'The Noodle Incident.'"

At the stove, Michelangelo froze and peered at them over his shoulder, his face red with embarrassment. The concoction he had been stirring began to boil over—frothing and spitting and running down the side of the pot.

"Dude! That was an accident and you know it!"

"Whatever helps ya sleep at night, Mikey."

"Master Splinter said it coulda happened to anyone…"

"Yeah, anyone with cottage cheese for brains…"

"Alright, okay, that's enough." Leonardo stepped between them, his hands held up dismissively. "Let's not start this battle again. 'The Noodle Incident' was…pretty bad, but now's not the time…" He turned his attention back to Donatello as Raphael grumbled and continued reading. "Are you _sure_ you're okay? It's just… you've been really withdrawn lately and we're all a little worried about you."

"Don't be." He fixed a smile to his face, but it was merely a façade. "I'm just tired and disappointed. The board I was working on was rather complex and it took a great deal of time and energy to design, say nothing of the resources involved."

"Don't sweat it, bro." Michelangelo said as he turned down the burner on the stove, added some salt to the witch's brew in the pot, and tasted it. "We can help you find the stuff you need to make a new one."

At the suggestion, Leonardo brightened. Donatello's isolation had become something of an elephant in the room. Everyone wanted to help him but no one knew quite what to say. And while words, despite their immaterial nature, hold infinite power to heal and console they can have the opposite effect if carelessly employed. An outing to the junkyard, on the other hand, seemed perfect. With one small gesture, they could show their support while getting him out of his lab and into the world beyond.

"Yeah," Leonardo agreed. "We might not be able to help you build it, but we're more than willing to take a trip down to the junkyard with you to look for parts."

"We are?" Raphael demanded. His expression was the portrait of reluctance; in turn, both Leonardo and Michelangelo glowered at him. He sighed, and with a roll of his eyes, relented. He closed his book, set it aside, and with all the enthusiasm he could muster, added: "I mean, of course we are!"

A knot formed in Donatello's gut. In times of trouble, he and his brothers rallied around one another. They learned from a young age that the world was a cruel, unforgiving place and that they would have to band together in order to survive. But this was different. This wasn't a battle against a flesh and blood opponent, but rather an affair of the heart; it could not be put right from the outside, only settled from within. To find peace, he would have to go it alone.

"Look guys, I appreciate it—really, I do—but it would be easier if I went by myself. The components I'll be looking for are fairly specific and you aren't particularly familiar with electronics. Besides, these winter nights have been bitter cold. Why should you come with me just to freeze your shells off?"

"You sure?" Leonardo asked, his brow knitted.

"Yeah, I'm sure. It shouldn't take me long to find what I need. I'll be back before you know it."

"It's settled then." With a smile, Raphael picked up his book and thumbed to the dog-eared page where he left off. "You won't hear me complainin'."

Donatello retrieved his _bo_, secured it in its sheath, and turned to leave; a hand on his shoulder, however, stopped him in his tracks. Leonardo stood behind him. His face was a mosaic of emotions—concern, anxiety, and sadness muddled together.

"Donnie, be careful out there."

With a disarming smile, he nodded his acknowledgement, leapt over the turnstiles, and ventured into the tunnels. In but a few steps, the darkness swallowed his form.

* * *

The world above slumbered. Storm clouds, thick and grey, shrouded the night sky like a veil of smoke. The streets, typically filled from pillar to post with people of all shapes, sizes, and stations, were empty save the occasional taxi cab or vagrant. Snow fell like tickertape, blanketing the earth in a coverlet of white. Donatello leapt from rooftop to rooftop, savoring the nip of the frigid air at his cheeks and the sound of the snow as it compressed beneath him. His heart thundered. For the first time in weeks he felt purposeful—an agent of circumstance rather than a victim of it.

Before long, he found himself overlooking April's apartment building. The windows were dark save a few dimly lit by light filtering through drawn shades or the flickering of television sets. Confident he was unseen, he knelt and looked to her bedroom window. Frost collected at the edges of the glass and stretched inward, yet the center remained clear; within, he could see April's sleeping form—a living portrait within an icy frame. A comforter was wrapped around her body like a cocoon and pulled to her chin; her features—softened by sleep—belied the storm and stress of her waking hours. He had never seen her look more peaceful—or more beautiful.

He smiled. Of late, he hadn't slept well. Exhausted though he was, he tossed and turned as his mind flitted from thought to thought or worry to worry. When he did sleep, it was dreamless—little more than a voyage into the blackness and back again. Though tranquility eluded him, he hoped her dreams were sweet; that, in the realm of her imaginings, she was granted the comfort and happiness reality so frequently denied. And he wondered if she ever dreamed of him as he did her.

A nigh-inaudible sound, like the pattering of water against stone or the wind scraping a dove's wings, captured his attention. It was a sound with which he was familiar—it was the sound of his eldest brother's footfalls. Leonardo, ever-vigilant and concerned for his well-being, must have tailed him. His stomach fluttered. He was caught in a lie.

"Leo…" He murmured. He rose to his feet slowly. "Look, it's not what it seems. I-I didn't mean to…"

"You don't have to explain. I'm glad you came."

The voice was unmistakable. He spun around. Karai stood amid the darkness, flanked by a small army of footbots. She ordered them to stand down and approached, looking him over with the intensity and anticipation of a predator examining its quarry.

"You turtles would be worthier opponents if you weren't so predictable. All I had to do was deploy some of my footbots to follow that empty-headed girl. I knew if I was patient, eventually you'd crawl out of whatever hole you've been hiding in to get in touch with her." She rolled her eyes in mock-exasperation. "Like moths to the flame…"

"What do you want, Karai?"

"What do I want? You're supposed to be smart. I thought you would already know." Her face twisted into a grimace. "I want you and your brothers to suffer as I have; to know how it feels to lose someone you care about."

During training, Master Splinter often used anecdotes and maxims to reinforce what he was teaching. He was well-read and could easily quote Lao Tzu one moment, Machiavelli the next, and Mark Twain thereafter. Once, when they were practicing tactical retreats, Raphael griped—he believed devoting time to practice running away was, as he put it, "friggin' ridiculous." Master Splinter, however, explained the purpose of the training by quoting Sun Tzu: "He who knows when he can fight and when he cannot, will be victorious."

He swallowed hard. Karai was a highly skilled _kunoichi_ fueled by rage and determined to sate her bloodlust in the name of revenge. What's more, she brought enough footbots with her to ensure the scales would be heavily tipped in her favor. Victory, it seemed, could only be achieved through retreat. He pulled a smoke bomb from his belt and prepared to disappear.

"Not so fast!" She bellowed. She unsheathed her blade; her robotic soldiers followed suit and readied their weapons. "Do you think I'm a fool?! Do you honestly believe I would let you slip away so easily? I've spent hours reflecting on my failures: how I went wrong, what I could have done differently, and—most importantly—why you got away. And I realized something: I have to attack the heart. If you run, the last thing April O'Neil will see is my face—just before I slit her throat."

Donatello froze. He scanned the huddled mass before him and took inventory of the opposition: twelve footbots armed with _katana, nunchaku, naginata, tonfa_, and_ kasurigama _stood poised to strike on the south side of the rooftop; twelve similarly armed bots gathered at the north. Conversely, his arsenal consisted of six _shuriken, _three smoke bombs, and his _bo_. He was outmatched. He knew it. But he also knew he had no choice.

"It doesn't have to be like this, Karai. Nobody has to get hurt…"

"Save it. By the time this is over, someone will be dead. The only say you have in the matter is whether it will be you or her…"

"Leave April out of it. Your fight is with me…" He inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled through his mouth; his breath—visible in the cold—hung in the air before dissipating. In the moment, all of creation seemed to balance on the point of a needle.

"As you wish. Footbots, kill him!"

The robotic soldiers heeded her command and charged; in response, Donatello threw the smoke bomb in his hand to the ground. A sooty plume of grey erupted and shot skyward. When it cleared, he was nowhere in sight. Karai balled her fists in rage; she clenched down so tightly that her nails dug into the heels of her palms.

"COWARD!"

As her wail echoed—dying a little with each refrain—three footbots fell. Purple sparks sprayed from their heads accompanied by puffs of black smoke and the smell of melted plastic. She knelt beside the downed bot closest her and looked it over. A _shuriken_ emblazoned with the Hamato family crest jutted from the back of its head.

"Cute, real cute…" She spat. "But you're going to have to do better than that…"

Donatello materialized at the far corner of the rooftop; the footbots sensed his presence and whirled around. Their eyes burned red for an instant as they committed the maneuver to memory; then, they went on the offensive. Five bots broke away from the group and attacked while the remainder provided cover with a barrage of _kunai._ Donatello drew his _bo_ and deflected the projectiles; however, before he could regain his bearings, a _nunchaku_ caught him in the temple and sent him stumbling back.

The metal men fell into formation, creating a semi-circle around him. They were trying to corner him—to use the edge of the roof as a natural boundary to limit his movement. He knew he had to act. He leapt in the air and delivered a jumping side kick to the head of the bot furthest left; with a crackle and burst of sparks, it dropped to the ground. As soon as he landed, he struck the next across the side of the head with enough force to send it off the roof. He swept the legs of the third; it fell with a clang and dropped its _katana._ Wasting no time, he scooped up the weapon and drove it into its chest.

The last of the bots in the formation—one armed with a _kasurigama, _the other with _tonfa_—advanced in unison. He recoiled and waited for them to make their move. The bot brandishing _tonfa_ charged; the other held back, whipping the weighted chain of the _kasurigama_ overhead. Donatello swung his _bo_ at the bot's head; it predicted his attack and ducked, leaving him over-extended and off-balance. A blow to the head dazed him and split his lip and a subsequent strike to the knee sent him to the ground. He scrambled to his feet, but before he could retaliate, the _kasurigama_ chain coiled around his _bo_ like a metal serpent. He held on with all of his strength, but it wasn't enough—it was wrenched from his grasp and tossed aside. Then, the bots closed in. He avoided a snap-kick from one, blocked the _tonfa_ of the other, and hooked the weapon under his arm. He refused to let go andused leverage to put its wielder into an arm-bar and slam it to the ground. Sparks erupted from its midsection, danced in the air, and fizzled out in the snow.

Just as he rolled away, the _kasurigama_ chain shot toward him and wrapped around his wrist. With no time to brace himself, he was yanked down and dragged across the roof, wincing in pain as the skin on his thighs scraped against the concrete and peeled away. He tried to right himself and managed to get to his knees, but the bot redoubled its effort and pulled even harder. It was too much. With a dull clack, his shoulder popped out of its socket. His ragged breaths and grunts of exertion crescendoed to a scream. The pain was unimaginable—it radiated, seethed—dampening every thought and whetting every fear. In his condition, without his _bo_, he felt like a fly caught in a spider's web, struggling futilely for life itself.

"You're pathetic." Karai sneered. "You have no fight in you. It's disgraceful. I hope your brothers prove more entertaining when the time comes…"

The footbot lifted him to his feet by the throat, clamping down on his windpipe with rail-thin metal fingers. He tried to choke in a breath, but gurgled instead. The edges of his vision grew blurry and he felt lightheaded yet still he resisted, refusing to yield—refusing to die. He tightened his neck muscles and strained against its grip; out of desperation, he left his feet and kicked it in the face. The next he knew, he was on the ground gasping for air. He was free. He got up quickly and ran headlong into his opponent; he kept his legs churning, drove it onto its back, and slammed his fist into its head again and again until nothing but twisted metal and frayed wires remained.

He rose unsteadily, tramped away from the debris pockmarking the roof and pitching sparks in all directions, and retrieved his _bo_. His left arm hung at a grotesque angle—noticeably lower than his right, his thighs were gnawed up and bloody, and he sported a goose-egg on his temple.

"What?" Karai bristled. "No witty banter? No threats? The least you could do is plead for your life. After all, you've only taken down eight of my men and you look like you can barely stand."

The mind is a curious instrument. Most times, it can be moderated—focused on a specific task or end. Occasionally, though, it imposes its will, conjuring unbidden memories from its depths. Donatello's mind wandered back to a training session several months prior. He had drawn the short straw and had to face Raphael in close-quarters combat. He fared reasonably well until he slipped and took the blunt end of a sai to the throat. He immediately crumpled to the ground. Once he collected himself and caught his wind, Michelangelo—ever the optimist—tried to help him see the bright side: "Well, dude, at least if it hurts it means you're still alive, right?"

The profundity of the statement left everyone momentarily speechless. Such weighty words sounded strange coming from someone whose speech was peppered with slang, colloquialisms, and self-made portmanteaus. Still, he preferred it to Raphael's more abrasive stand-by: "Quit bein' such a pussy."

Now as then, he was hurt. Hurt but alive. So long as the latter remained true—so long as his heart beat and his lungs drew breath—he would fight. But he couldn't let Karai dictate the fight. To prevail, he needed to turn the tables in his favor. The rooftop provided no cover and left him vulnerable. He needed a venue change, someplace with chokepoints and blind corners, someplace where superior numbers meant nothing. The abandoned meatpacking plant on Forsyth Avenue came to mind. He had been there before in search of spare parts and found little, but the roof was lined with industrial refrigeration units and condensers. It was tactically advantageous, situated in a sparsely populated area, and it was only a few blocks away. But he needed Karai to take the bait. He needed to lure her away from April—to distract her from her objective. He needed to attack the heart.

"Say you succeed. Say you manage to kill everyone who's ever wronged you." He spat blood onto the roof and wiped the excess from his lip with his thumb. "Then what? It's not going to change anything."

"Maybe not. But at least I'd have peace of mind knowing that the monsters responsible for taking my mother away from me paid for what they did."

"Peace of mind..?" As he considered her logic, a faint smile graced his lips.

She her lips curled into a scowl. "What's so funny?!"

"Peace of mind." He chortled derisively. It was soft at first, but it built upon itself until it rumbled through him. "If you honestly believe that, you're naïve. Hate is all you have. It sustains you. It keeps you going. Gives you purpose. Take that away and what are you?"

Her muscles tensed and her features, once alight with superiority, became unreadable.

"Exactly. You'd be nothing—just a bitter, hateful, blight on mankind. You think you'd find peace if you killed us? You wouldn't be able to live without us."

"SHUT UP!" Her bottom lip quivered slightly and her eyes, fixed on him, were wheels of fire.

"All your life. All for this. In the name of a woman you don't remember; a woman whose heart would surely break if she realized you are her daughter…"

Her composure was feeble and her anger torrential; it eroded rational thought and made her reflexive. With her _wakizashi_ raised, she hurtled herself at Donatello. He, on the other hand, remained calm. Reaching into his belt, he produced his T-phone and a smoke bomb. He hit the panic button on the former and slid it across the roof—it banked off the ledge at the other side and remained, alerting the others and sending them its coordinates; he threw the latter to the ground as a diversion and retreated, traversing snow-covered rooftops toward Forsyth Avenue. He looked over his shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Karai and her robotic soldiers in hot pursuit. She unwittingly fell into his trap: his brothers would track the signal, piece together what happened, and keep April safe. And he, hurt but alive, alone save the falling snow, would stand against her.

* * *

In its heyday, the Forsyth Meatpacking Plant was a lucrative enterprise, producing high-quality kosher meats for the city's burgeoning Jewish community. Around the clock, trucks came and went; workers filed in and out; and the smokestacks—urban geysers fueled by hickory and apple-wood—belched soot into the air. But after decades of wear and tear, the building—a monolithic structure from the 1940s—was condemned by city officials. Rather than allocating funds to renovate the existing structure, the owners opted to build a new facility. Now it stood empty: a symbol of the city's rich industrial heritage, a playground for miscreants seeking cheap thrills, a blank canvas for graffiti vandals, and a temporary home to drifters and pigeons alike.

Donatello dashed toward the plant in an irregular pattern, kicking up wisps of snow with every footfall. _Kunai_ screamed past him, yearning to taste his flesh and lap at his blood, but he managed to stay a step ahead. At the back of the building, beside the loading docks, was a roof access ladder made of rebar bent into rudimentary rungs. He made his way there. He took hold of the lowest rung with his good arm and heaved himself up; as he climbed, his muscles—tight from the cold—quivered and cramped. He bit down on his lower lip, fought through the pain, and made it unsteadily—but otherwise safely—to the roof. Long cylindrical tanks stretched across one side; several large compressors loomed at the other, casting broad shadows that spilled to the ground below. Galvanized piping in various lengths and thicknesses ran between the two, the veins and arteries of a mechanical goliath.

He made a beeline to the far side of the roof, sticking to the shadows as he weaved under and around the low-hanging pipes. A small gap situated between the ledge of the roof and two of the compressors offered both protection and an easily defensible position; he stepped into it and sat down in the snow as he caught his breath. There was movement down below. He could hear it—the dry crunch of snow underfoot and the wimpling echo of loose stone gnashing the pavement—and knew he didn't have long. He lifted the hand on his injured arm to a pipe jutting from the compressor, wound his fingers tightly around it, and kept his elbow close to his body. Then, he simultaneously stretched, rotated, and lifted his arm; with a sharp click, his shoulder popped back in place. Unshed tears stung his eyes as muffled curses fell from his lips. He kneaded his shoulder with his fingers, rotated it back and forth, and tested his range of motion. It was tender and swollen, but he was fairly certain it would hold up if he didn't rely too heavily on it.

A sharp sequence of noises rose from below; with every strike, the building shuddered as if in pain. He knew what it meant. They were coming for him. He slid his _bo_ from its sheath and got to a knee. The off-beat hammering grew louder and drew closer until, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped. For a moment, there was silence.

"I know you're up here, freak!" Karai's proclamation, venom-laced and shrill, cut through the night. "You have two options: you can either come out and face me or I can send my men in to retrieve you. But you should know that the longer I have to wait, the slower your death is going to be. The choice is yours. I'll give you thirty seconds."

She counted back from thirty. Each passing second tolled like a bell, signaling the approach of something ominous. Yet, he was calm—soothed by memories of those he loved. He thought of Master Splinter: how the smell of jasmine and sage incense lingered on him; how his whiskers twitched of their own accord when he was deep in thought; and how, when he believed his sons weren't paying attention, he stole glances as though framing pictures in his mind. He thought of his brothers: how Raphael changed the words to the _Space Heroes_ theme song and sang it loudly—and badly—to irritate Leonardo, how Leonardo enacted revenge by replacing Raphael's liniment oil with Icy Hot, and how Michelangelo trumped them both with the culinary fiasco later dubbed, "The Noodle Incident." And then there was April. With her, ordinary moments blossomed into more. She was a rose in a concrete jungle; she was loveliness personified. When he first laid eyes on her, she kindled a fire in his heart. Initially, it was little more than a white-hot flame of attraction; but as he came to know her—to truly realize her virtues—it consumed him.

Karai mistakenly believed that entanglements of the heart were for the weak; little more than the sentimental distractions of doe-eyed dreamers. She thought those with nothing to lose were freer in battle, more willing to cross blurry ethical lines to complete their objective. What she didn't know—what she couldn't know—was that the opposite was true. If there was a power stronger than freedom, it was love. Those bound to others by love—those with someone to protect—were the most dangerous because they stood to lose something greater than themselves.

When she ordered her men to search the rooftop, she believed herself victorious—that with little effort Donatello would be laid at her feet like a sacrificial lamb. Perhaps if he had no reason to keep fighting, such an end would have come. But the fire in his heart burned bright. As her soldiers stepped forth, the lamb they sought shed its cloak of wool and revealed itself a wolf.


	2. Part II

The rooftop, though expansive, was divided into quadrants by machinery: the first, at the front left, contained a refrigeration tank and aluminum ductwork from the HVAC system; within the second, at the far left, was a similar refrigeration tank and a labyrinth of galvanized piping; in the third, at the front right, sat one of the two compressors; the other compressor and the lion's share of the associated piping was located in the fourth quadrant at the far right of the roof. Donatello, on the fringes of the third and fourth quadrants, laid in wait. He knew he couldn't afford to be hasty. If he moved too soon, he risked exposing himself to a frontal attack from the remaining footbots; but if he waited too long, he would be surrounded.

He gripped his _bo _more tightly as the first of the footbots approached. Communicating back and forth in brusque yips and yelps, the pair marched passed, oblivious to his presence. He listened to the sound of their dying steps as they moved slowly but steadily to the front of the roof. When he could hear them no longer, he pulled a _shuriken _from his belt; holding it at an angle, he used its reflective surface to catch a glimpse of the rear of the roof. Though he couldn't accurately gauge distance, he could see two more foot soldiers moving toward him. He replaced the _shuriken_ and concealed himself against the compressor, but the bots, like their predecessors, ambled on. His brow furrowed in disbelief. He expected Karai's force to stick together and take their time searching every crack and crevice of the rooftop; instead, she opted to pair her men off and scatter them in all directions. Tactically, it was an odd decision—likely fueled by anger and impatience—and it played into his hands.

He got to his feet when the footbot's droning mechanical chatter was within earshot. Clumsy in the snow, they clomped down the trail left by those that passed—they were mere feet away and closing in. His heart fluttered but he held fast. As soon as they crossed his line of sight, he sprang upon them, driving the blade of his _bo_ into the head of the nearest bot before it could raise its arms to defend itself; the second, standing behind and to the right of the first, drew its _katana. _He kicked the body of the impaled foot soldier in the direction of its companion and freed his blade. In an argentine flash, the bot cleaved it in two and advanced. It took a swipe at him, but he slid beneath the blow and countered with two direct hits: one to the arm and the other to the head. The first parried an attack and the second sent the metal soldier reeling; deftly, he spun his _bo _around and slid the blade into its midsection. Smoke billowed from the wound and the bot dropped to the ground. Tendrils of steam poured from the body the instant it made contact with the snow on the roof.

He looked to the right—in the direction the bots were headed—and then back from whence they came. From the rear of the roof, two bots—one with a _kasurigama_, the other with a _naginata —_stood motionless, glaring at him. Their eyes, dark as coal, flared like the end of a cigarette during a long drag; then, they shot toward him. He turned on his heels, scurried between the compressors, and stepped onto the ledge of the roof. Gingerly, he placed one foot behind the other until he was hidden behind the compressor's hulking form. The first bot on the scene arrived in a frenzy, practically squealing in anticipation. It rustled in the space between for a moment before it considered the ledge. As soon as it stuck its head out from behind the compressor, he took hold of it by the back of the neck and flung it off the side of the roof. It landed four stories below in an unceremonious display of pyrotechnics. Its partner cracked Donatello across the plastron with the blunt end of its _naginata._ Lungs burning, he staggered back—his legs twitched unsteadily as he struggled to keep his balance. The bot joined him on the ledge, whirled its weapon around, and charged him with the blade. With a downward thrust, he pinned the blade against the compressor, pivoted his body along the shaft of the weapon, and knocked it from the bot; it answered with a knee to his gut and a right hook to his injured shoulder. He yowled in pain. Infuriated, he slammed its head against the compressor and swept its legs with his _bo; _it plummeted to the ground a few feet from the gnarled remains of the other bot. Knowing noise would draw more soldiers to his position, he tip-toed along the ledge toward the front of the roof.

When he reached the end of the compressor, he flattened himself against it and peered over his shoulder. Four footbots searched the area, looking for any sign of him. He stifled a sigh, lightly chewed the inside of his cheek, and mulled over methods of dispatching them that married speed to discretion. Clinking and the scraping of metal against stone, however, snapped him from his thoughts. A foot soldier stepped from the gap between the compressors onto the ledge, the blade of its _katana _shining like a steel talon in the low light. His heart sank. In his condition, he wanted to avoid engaging the bots strength for strength. Now though, he had no choice. He pulled two _shuriken_ from his belt and launched them in succession at two of the bots on the rooftop; both targets froze the instant contact was made, stiffened, and toppled over. He leapt from the ledge to the roof and rushed the other pair just as they turned around. With a swipe of his _bo, _he knocked one to the ground; the other surged toward him, twisting and twirling the _nunchaku_ in its clutches. He dodged one blow, blocked another, and delivered a roundhouse kick to the side of its head. It fell as its partner got to its feet. It bolted at him in a series of zig-zags, _tonfa_ at-the-ready. When it got close, it bounded and swung both _tonfa_ into his _bo_ with as much force as it could muster; the reverberations traveled up his arms and reached their terminus in his shoulders. He countered by jabbing it in the chest, sweeping its legs, and crushing its head with hisstaff_._

He got to a knee. His breaths were short and shallow; the cold air was abrasive—like sandpaper scouring his lungs. He ran his hand over the top of his head and wiped away sweat. Steam swayed on the tips of his fingers, twisted in the air, and ascended. For the briefest of moments, his mind turned to the sewers, how when it was especially cold, the gasses trapped beneath the surface would pour into the world above like specters escaping purgatory. Though unremarkable, he found himself nonetheless captivated by the notion that, under the right conditions, something trapped within the fetid bowels of the city could seamlessly transition to the world above.

He emerged from his thoughts as a long, narrow shadow eclipsed him. In the wink of an eye, he rolled to the right; a _katana_ sliced through the spot he vacated and pinged off the rooftop. The bot from the ledge had crept up behind him. It recovered quickly and raised its weapon overhead, preparing to deliver a death-blow. He thrust his _bo_ into its torso. It hunched forward. He got to his feet, hammered it upside the head, and charged, hoping to destroy it before it could regain its balance. A front kick, however, knocked him back. Immediately, he was back on defense. He avoided two passes from the _katana_ but was unable to evade a side-kick. The force of the impact sent him to the ground. Without hesitation, the bot brought its _katana _down; it sank into his _bo_ and snapped it in two. The bot kicked him again, this time in the head. He spun around, lost his grip on the remnants of his weapon, and landed on his plastron. Frantically, he army-crawled toward the half of his _bo _that housed its blade. He reached it as the footbot began its backswing. Springing forward, he extended the blade and jammed it into the bot's chest. It dropped to the ground beside him.

He laid there for minute or two, panting heavily. He knew he needed to find cover but his body—battered, exhausted, and shivering—wouldn't obey.

"C'mon Donnie," He muttered to himself. "Get up… Get up..."

It was his mantra. He groaned as he rolled from his carapace to his plastron and again as he took to a knee. With an immense effort, he lifted himself to his feet and wiped the snow from his arms and legs with his hand. His eyes roved the roof, looking for something to use in place of his _bo._ Attention shifted from body to body and weapon to weapon until, beneath an incapacitated bot with a _shuriken_ lodged in its head, laid what he was looking for—a _naginata._ He hobbled over to it, grabbed hold of it, and tried to yank it free with his right arm; the heft of the bot, however, kept it pinned to the ground. He sighed. Reluctantly, he repositioned himself and gripped the _naginata_ in both hands. With a firm pull, the weapon began to slide free.

His heart raced when he heard a chorus of yips and yelps set to the rhythm of clopping feet. They weren't far off. Urgency renewed, he pulled harder and harder; nevertheless, the weapon moved incrementally—only inches at a time. Their cries grew louder as they closed in. Again and again he heaved and little by little the _naginata_ budged. Three-quarters of it was free when a group of five foot soldiers rounded the end of the compressor. Upon seeing him, they pulled _kunai_ from their belts. His eyes widened. He let go of the _naginata_, drew his last smoke bomb, and hurled it to the ground as they cocked their arms_._ His cover quickly dissipating, he rushed to the industrial refrigeration unit on the other side of the rooftop. A stinging pain shot through his carapace, radiating from a point between his neck and his shoulder. Paying no mind, he hurdled over aluminum ductwork, slinked around a ventilation pipe, and ducked behind the massive tank.

He gritted his teeth. His left hand was the source of a river and pins and needles that flowed up his arm and emptied into his shoulder joint. The swelling, once localized, had become a hindrance; before long, he wouldn't be able to lift his arm. He grumbled. Time was no longer his ally. He couldn't afford to skulk from shadow to shadow picking off bots as they straggled across the roof. He had to sacrifice stealth for speed or risk facing the footbots—or worse, Karai—with one arm.

He rubbed his eyes roughly. He couldn't concentrate. The waspish pain between his neck and shoulder begged for attention. Instinctively, he reached back; a steel handle crowned with a small loop greeted him—one of the _kunai_ had found its target. He took hold of it and, with a few curt breaths of encouragement, tore it from his carapace. A grumble bubbled at the back of his throat as the pain—for a fraction of a second—intensified. When it receded, he held the weapon in his hand and examined every detail—the modest curvature of the blade, its width at the hilt and sleekness at the tip—and realized he held the key to a reversal of fortune.

He glanced from behind the refrigeration tank. Two more footbots joined the others to form a unified group of seven; collectively, they pivoted in his direction and began marching—they recalled his previous smoke bomb maneuver and were not fooled. Calmly, he swept their ranks with his eyes. Of the seven, two held _naginata_—one in the middle of the pack, the other to the far right. He opted to start with the latter, procure its weapon, and work inward from the flank. He crept to the end of the tank and rapped on it with his fist to provoke them; the metal soldiers cried out excitedly and made their move—two rushed either end of the tank while the other three blitzed it headlong, intent on scaling it to mount a frontal assault.

This time, he did not wait. He launched himself at the footbot as it rounded the side of the tank. It raised its _naginata_ and thrust the blade at him but he shifted, avoided the attack, and used his left arm to pin the weapon against his body; then, he jammed the kunai under its chin. Sparks spurted from the wound; it shuddered and fell to its knees. He relieved it of its weapon, pushed it aside, and wrenched the _kunai_ free. The other bot on the flank swiped at him with its _kasurigama_. It swung wildly, hacking and dicing the air, the blade but a glinting silver fleck. He blocked a downward stroke, kicked the bot in the midsection and— with a twist of his weapon_—_separated the _kasurigama_ from its wielder. Then he pared its head from its body.

He leapt atop the refrigeration tank. With a flick of his wrist, he downed the nearest foot soldier—the _kunai_ slipped effortlessly into its chest. Its momentum carried it forward a few steps before it slumped from the tank to the roof. Upon witnessing its demise, two pairs of crimson eyes flashed. He exchanged blows with the pair. One managed to catch him in the jaw with a stiff left hook; he responded by cutting off its hands. Exposed wires crackled and popped. Ringlets of smoke huffed from its wrists. Still, it lurched ahead. From behind, its partner followed suit. It lowered its _naginata_ to chest-level and charged. With a swipe from the blunt-end of his weapon, Donatello spun the first bot around. He drove himself into its back at full-speed and skewered it on the _naginata _of the second. Before it could free its blade, he plunged his into the side of its head.

From the edge of the roof, the remaining footbots bleated wildly; he jumped from the tank and gave ground, backing in the direction of the HVAC ductwork to avoid facing them in a confined space. _Katana_ drawn and poised to strike, they dashed. He held fast. With swiftness and precision, they guided their steel toward his flesh; they narrowly missed—pulling either too wide or too short—and were left momentarily vulnerable. He pinned the _katana_ of the nearest—overextended from its effort—to the ground with his foot and, with a kick, disarmed it; the other bot, in a risky maneuver, sliced at his throat. He dodged the attack and plunged the _naginata_ into its side. He pulled the blade from its gut and turned his attention to its unarmed compatriot when an arm wrapped around his throat. A shiver of fear quaked through him. Then, he felt a sharp pain in his side. A strange, inhuman sound—the offspring of a wail and gasp—burst from his lungs.

* * *

"Shh. Shh. Shh. Shh…" Karai's voice, breathy and hushed, filled his ear. "You'll spoil the moment…"

With downcast eyes, he saw the hilt of her _wakizashi_ jutting from his side; she rotated it back and forth in small increments. It was agonizing. He couldn't move. Couldn't think. His heart seemed to pump magma; his insides burned and the pain spiked with every beat.

"How does it feel, freak?"

He gasped for air. His lungs were on fire.

"ANSWER ME!"

She twisted the _wakizashi_. His wound, neat and precise, was torn open; his cries shattered the tranquility of the night and reverberated in deformed, anguished aftershocks.

"Good." She chirped. "I hope it hurts. I hope it hurts like hell…" Her grip around his neck loosened slightly. "Footbot! Take the turtle's weapon!"

As instructed, the metal soldier approached and seized the _naginata._ He clung to it, refusing to let go, until she gnashed the hilt of her blade against his wound. With a groan he reluctantly released it.

"Good boy…" She deigned. She bore down on his windpipe and directed him toward a stretch of ductwork a few feet away; then, in a single, rapid motion, she wrested her _wakizashi_ from his side.

He doubled over—body convulsing—and fell to his knees. He applied pressure to the area, but it did little to slow his bleeding—blood trickled from between his fingers and ran in ruddy tributaries down his plastron and right leg. Weakening, he fell back against the ductwork with a grunt; his breaths were short and his chest rose and fell sporadically.

A Cheshire grin spread across Karai's face. She held her _wakizashi_ at an angle and it shined in the phosphorescent glow of the streetlamps. She marveled at the dark luster of the blade and appreciated the way the light toyed with the blood thereon. With a wave of her hand, the footbot at her side took its place beside Donatello, _naginata_ in its grasp.

"You know, I've spent years training—pushing my body to its limit, honing my skills against some of the best in the world, ignoring the pain and isolation—all in anticipation of this moment. I've given up more than you could ever imagine just to savor this feeling." She ran her index finger along the blade until it was coated in his blood; then, she massaged it between her forefinger and thumb, as if testing its viscosity. "And what a feeling. Totally worth the wait."

Donatello controlled his breathing to mitigate the pain and slow his heart-rate. He followed her with his eyes as she paced back and forth in front of the refrigeration tank, stepping over the battered bodies of the footbots lying in the snow.

"I'm not going to lie to you, though." She continued. "When I saw you running across the rooftops earlier, I could have sworn you were Leo. I was really hoping you were. When you turned around and I saw you weren't him, I have to admit, I was pretty disappointed. But you've proven to be so…entertaining. It's a shame you have to die." Her eyes, fixed on him, narrowed. "But you're just a small part of a greater plan. After all, once your brothers find your body, they will come to me. And when they do… I'll be ready."

"N..no…" He managed between breaths. His neck muscles twitched involuntarily.

"Oh, yes." She retorted. She sauntered up to him, crouched down to his level, and looked him in the eye. "You're just the beginning. No matter how long it takes, no matter how long I have to wait, or what I have to sacrifice, know that everyone you care about will die at my hand—from your brothers, to your rat master, to that little bitch April O'Neil…"

Upon hearing her name, he lost focus. The pain from his wound, relegated to the far-off corners of his mind, reared back with a vengeance; in response, his features gnarled.

"Oh… Did I strike a nerve?" She sing-songed. "That's too bad. I knew eventually you'd go to her. I just can't understand it, though… Not only did aliens cross dimensions to capture her, but a group of freaks regularly risks life and limb for her. So what's the deal? What makes her worth the trouble..? Is she some sort of reptilian cumdumpster or something..?"

She expected him to lash out—to spit in her face or mount one final, futile assault. But he didn't. Instead, he met her gaze; his eyes looked into hers and beyond. Something within her cowered, taken aback by his dauntlessness. He, on the other hand, simply shook his head.

"You…wouldn't understand…"

"Oh, really?"

"Really…"

Maybe it was his expression. Maybe it was his tone of voice. Maybe it was something else entirely—something invisible and ineffable—that betrayed him. No matter the culprit, the damage was done. Karai's eyes widened. Her jaw hung lax. In a moment of clarity, her demented mind stumbled upon the truth. And it gleamed.

"Oh that's TOO precious! You… You…" Fits of laughter rendered her momentarily speechless. "You LOVE her! How ridiculous!

He looked away and clamped his eyes shut, refusing to give her the satisfaction of breaking him. Still, his sorrow swelled. He knew he had no reason to give credence to her barbs, but they nonetheless stung, as they breathed life into a fear that once resided entirely in his mind.

"Don't be like that…" She guffawed, still amused. "It's cute in a sad, hopeless kind of way. Like Quasimodo and Esmeralda. You laid it all on the line for her and for what? A 'thank you'? An appreciative glance? A smile?" Her voice was low and heavy. "A kiss..?"

Ever so gently, she brushed her fingertips against his cheek and, with her opposite hand, forced him to look her in the eye. She smiled, climbed into his lap, and straddled his legs. Before he could turn away or make a move to rebuff her, she thrust her lips against his.

He recoiled at her touch—the feeling of her body pressed into his, the warmth of her breath on his skin, how her tongue parted his lips, demanding admission. It repulsed him. He shoved her away; she lost her balance and tightened her legs around his to avoid falling back into the snow. That's when he felt it, something small and rigid against his carapace—the last of his _shuriken._

Incensed, Karai backhanded him across the face and got to her feet.

"I get it." She snarled. "April O'Neil… She's everybody's everything, isn't she? Well, no more. You think you've saved her? You're WRONG. Once I'm done with you, I'm going to cut her open and see what's inside…" Fuming, she turned on her heel and began to pace back and forth. "I know!" She exclaimed, the afterglow of contemplation lingering on her countenance. "I'll take her your head! I'll sneak into her place, lay it next to her in bed, and wait. When she wakes up, I'll watch as the look on her face as changes from confusion to horror. Then, just as she starts to scream…" She slammed her fist into the refrigeration tank. "I'll cut her throat and listen to her choke to death on her own blood…"

The mind is a curious instrument. Under duress, it knows no boundaries. Details overlooked under normal circumstances are held to the light and scrutinized. As Karai raved, practically foaming at the mouth, Donatello's ears were drawn not to the sound of her voice, but to something else—the resonance of her blow to the metal tank. Since he often worked with compressed gasses, he was well-versed in proper storage and handling of the canisters. Yet certain bits of knowledge are acquired through necessity. For instance, when one has three brothers—particularly when one is an inveterate prankster and another has a violent streak—it is important to know the sound of an empty canister versus the sound of one containing pressurized gas. In the case of the former, it is high-pitched and tinny; conversely, when full or partially full, the sound is different—akin to a gong—and the echoes die quickly. When she punched the tank, it produced a low timbre. It was full. Perhaps the owners of the property planned to empty it at a later time or perhaps they believed that, since it was on the roof, no one would tamper with it. No matter the reason, Karai stood in front of it. And the paint thereon—cracked and peeling—indicated its contents: NH3—ammonia anhydrous—a popular refrigerant prior to the introduction of chlorofluorocarbons.

Mind aflame with rage, she never noticed Donatello shift his weight, nor did she see his hand travel from his wound to his belt and back again. In a flurry, he heaved himself up. He couldn't afford to miss. Not now. If she deflected his shot, all hope was lost. He needed her to believe that she was his target. And to overlook the greater threat mere feet behind her.

He hurled the _shuriken_. It screamed as it cut through the air. She failed to see it coming until the last possible second; the air shifted and the feathery kiss of the wind grazed her neck, but no more: the _shuriken_ sailed wide of her throat and sank into the tank at her back.

She smirked. "Idiot! You mis…"

With a hiss, the refrigeration tank ruptured. Instantly, she was devoured by a thick cloud of white vapor. It expanded and rose in rolling, amorphous puffs. The footbot struck Donatello in the head with its _naginata._ His legs, already wobbly, buckled and he fell to the ground; mercilessly, it stepped on his windpipe and raised its blade, poised to deliver a killing blow. But it didn't. Upon hearing Karai's screams of anguish, its eyes flickered intermittently. It removed its foot, dropped its weapon, and turned; then, it ran toward—and disappeared into—the miasma. A few seconds elapsed before it emerged with Karai's limp form cradled in its arms. Its wild yelps mingled with the deafening din of the escaping gas as it carried her away and disappeared into the night.

Eyes burning, he rolled onto his plastron and began to crawl away from the tank. Every movement was arduous. Every breath a battle he struggled to win. Yet certain sensations seemed exaggerated. The snow beneath him felt unbelievably cold—so cold it burned; the path ahead teetered in one direction and then the next until he was completely disoriented; and his limbs seemed heavy—so heavy—that even dragging himself inches at a time was a test of will. He pressed on until he could go no further. Exhausted, he rolled onto his back and looked skyward. He clutched his side, watched the snow fall and his breaths dance in the air, and struggled to keep his eyes open. Before long, the world around him ceased to be. Everything went black. Then white.

* * *

He stretched his arms over his head, splayed his legs, and moved them back and forth. What he felt, though, was not the icy sting of snow but the gentle caress of soft grass and loam soil. His eyes shot open. A cloudless, lapis-blue sky greeted him. The sun hanged lazily at its apex, its benevolent rays warm against his skin. He sat up, leaning back on his elbows. A cobblestone walkway lay at his feet. Trees—either crabapple or cherry, he couldn't tell which—lined either side as it snaked to and fro, their lush blossoms providing a modicum of shade. He shielded his eyes with his hand. At the end of the path, there was a lake. The pristine water caught the light and together they waltzed like lovers. Squinting, he could make out a figure clad in a long, flowing garment, standing at the shoreline.

Curious, he got up, stepped onto the walkway, and made his way to the water's edge. Every step revealed something he'd previously overlooked: patches of daffodils and tulips in full bloom at the bases of the trees, songbirds rustling in the branches and warbling merrily, and the warm, earthy aroma of the breeze. When he rounded the final curve, he took pause and looked more closely at the figure. It wore a white cloak made of a thin, sheer fabric. Hooded with its arms folded in front of its body, he could glean no more.

"Uh…h-hello..?" He stammered.

The figure did not move.

"Hello..?"

Again, nothing. He moved forward slowly, cautiously, unsure of who—or what—stood mere feet away.

"S-sorry to disturb you, but I…"

Suddenly, as if roused from a trance, the figure turned its head. It withdrew its hands from the billowy sleeves of the cloak and threw back its hood. Fiery locks undulated down, shoulder-length; eyes of sapphire gleamed behind rosy cheeks and alabaster skin. Donatello was dumbstruck. April stood before him. Her eyes ignited when they met his.

"Donnie…" Her voice was like velvet. With a smile, she extended her hand, beckoning him to join her.

Without a second thought, he went to her. But as the distance between them closed, the breeze stirred. It grew from a zephyr to a gale. He steeled himself against it and pressed on. He was close. So close. She was almost within reach. Then, the wind—already savage—intensified. He gritted his teeth, leaned forward as far as he could, and reached out to her; his fingertips grazed hers, but he could not take hold of her hand.

"Donnie…"

His heart sank. He could hold out no longer.

"April..!"

He was swept from his feet. April…the calm lake…the flowering trees… the cobblestone path…everything blurred—colors bled into one another and forms lost substance. All he could feel was the wind lashing him as he catapulted through the air. Yet through it all, before everything went black, he could hear her voice calling out to him.

* * *

"Donnie?!"

His eyes fluttered. A figure, obscured by darkness, knelt beside him; it leaned in closer, pressed its fingers to his neck, and laid the side of its head to his plastron, checking for signs of life.

"DONNIE!"

Its voice seemed far off—the whisper of an echo. He drew a breath to speak but only wheezed, teeth chattering. He tried to sit up, but his body wouldn't obey. Every part of him was numb—trembling. He clamped down more tightly on his wound and sucked in a breath.

"A…Ap…ril..?" Her name caught in his throat and disintegrated as it fell from his lips.

"No," The voice replied softly. "Donnie, it's me…"

His surroundings—to point, a shapeless smattering of colors—came into focus. It had stopped snowing and the clouds blotting out the stars had thinned and parted. He craned his neck and looked more closely at the figure beside him. It was Raphael.

"R-Raph..?" He managed. "April…is…she..?"

"April?" Astonishment and disbelief pervaded his tone. "She's fine. A little worked up, maybe, but she's no worse for wear. We followed your signal and saw that somethin' went down. Leo had Mikey take her down to the Lair before we started this little game of extreme hide-n-seek lookin' for ya." He chuckled, pleased with himself. "Looks like I won. And all I had to do was look for the smoke…"

_She's fine._ For the first time in weeks, Donatello felt relieved. The cycle of self-loathing, regret, and sorrow had been torn asunder by two simple words. A smile of self-satisfaction crept across his face.

"Thank…goodness…"

Raphael surveyed the rooftop. Footbots in various states of decrepitude lay scattered in all directions. Some kind of gas—he had no idea which—wafted into the air from a punctured metal tank. And then there was Donatello. He could tell he was hurt—his face was bloodied and he was clutching his side—but with the indirect light of streetlamps the only source of illumination, he couldn't tell how badly.

"Donnie, what the hell happened?"

He sighed and swallowed hard. "I… I never went…to the junkyard… I went…to see…April…"

"I figured that much out, Brainiac." Raphael said with a roll of his eyes. "What I meant was how'd this happen to ya?"

"It was…an ambush. Karai had her…footbots following…April. They had the whole…area staked…out. I walked…right into it…"

"Jesus. Why didn't ya just give 'em the slip? She caught ya off-guard, by yourself, and she had ya outnumbered…"

"I was…going to… Until she told me…that she'd kill April…if I didn't stay…and fight. I couldn't…let that happen… I had to take my chances."

Raphael's eyes narrowed. Feverishly, his mind pieced together the bits of information into an intelligible sequence of events. Part of him _needed_ to know, as though knowing would somehow change the result. Instead, the more he understood, the more troubled he became.

"So the distress signal… It wasn't for you, was it?"

"No. The plan was to…lead Karai and her soldiers…away from April. I had to…buy you…guys some time… to get to her…"

Raphael smiled. "Always usin' that noggin of yours…" In a heartbeat, the warmth in his voice was subverted by something cold and foreboding—Dr. Jekyll had left the room and Mr. Hyde had taken his place. "Which way did she go? I'll hunt her down and cave her fuckin' skull in for her."

Donatello coughed. Every breath was a struggle. "Don't know. One of her bots…carried her away…"

"Carried her..? Didja…" He drew out the word, carefully considering his next. "Take her down?"

"I didn't." With a tip of his head, Donatello gestured in the direction of the ruptured refrigeration tank. "That did. Industrial refrigeration units…like these use…ammonia anhydrous. It's… extremely caustic. Not to be…trifled with…"

"So is she..?"

"D-dead..?"

"Yeah."

"I don't…know. It's…hard to say." Donatello replied. He felt strange, like his head was too big for his body and his limbs were lined with lead. "Exposure can cause…anything from eye and skin irritation…to blindness…chemical burns, and…respiratory failure. All I know is…she was alive when…she made her escape."

Raphael shrugged. "Well, either way, she had it comin'." He extended his hand to his brother. "You good to go?"

"No…" He muttered. "I'm not…"

Raphael snickered. "C'mon, bro, get up and shake it off." He reached over, grabbed hold of Donatello's hand, and heaved. "Quit bein' such a…"

Donatello hissed in pain; Raphael, startled, shrank back and pulled away his hand. It wasn't until he held it to the light that he realized it was coated in blood.

"What the..?" Absently, he pressed his fingers together and pulled them apart; in the cold air, the blood dried quickly and left his hand feeling tacky. "Donnie..?"

He winced as he pulled his hand from his side. Without constant pressure to stifle its flow, blood poured from his wound. "I'd…never make…it."

At the very sight, Raphael blanched. He stood gaping, equally panicked and dazed. He had seen worse wounds in violent movies—veritable fountains of gore that roiled squeamish stomachs—but never in person and never inflicted upon someone he cared about. His mind hummed of action, yet he remained inert—seemingly petrified. When he gathered his senses, he pulled his T-phone from his belt.

"Leo…Mikey…" His voice shuddered. He tried to speak clearly and calmly, but every word retained a sharp, frenzied edge. "I found Donnie. We're at the meatpacking plant on Forsyth. He's hurt… he's hurt bad… Get here… GET HERE NOW..!"

He dropped the phone from his ear, let it slip to the ground, and got to his feet.

"Raph…where…where are you going..?"

His eyes were wide. "I...I gotta go… gotta go find help… I'm gonna… I'm gonna get you some help…"

"N-no!" Donatello urged, desperation evident in both tone and visage. "P-please…please don't go… I… I don't want to be alone…"

"But I gotta do somethin'. There's gotta be somethin' I can do…"

"There…is…" He coughed. He could taste blood and knew he didn't have much longer. "There is…something you can…do." With slow, deliberate movements, he struggled to sit up; taking note, Raphael gently lifted his brother and set him down against the back of the second refrigeration tank.

"Anything…"

He tottered from one side to the other. His head lolled and his eyes flittered. But then, as if startled from the interregnum between sleep and wakefulness, he snapped to attention and gestured for Raphael to take a seat beside him.

"Ever since…we were little…you've always been…the strongest. Always…been able to…take whatever the…world could dish…out. When I'm…gone…"

"No…" Raphael pleaded. "Don't talk like that, man. You're gonna pull through. You're gonna be fine…"

"I'm…not."

"But…"

"Listen to me!" Raising his voice left him short of breath. He hacked and sputtered until blood and spit dripped from the corners of his mouth. "When…I'm gone…you'll have…to be strong…enough for the both…of us. Leo…Mikey…Sensei… They're going to…need you…more than you'll ever know. They'll need… your strength… your spirit… They'll be counting on…you...to hold…it together…" He turned his head and met his brother's gaze. "You can't…let…this destroy…you or our…family..."

Raphael felt something within him stir. He may have been the strongest of his brothers, but Donatello was the most independent. He rarely, if ever, asked for favors. But now, on the roof of an abandoned building, with eyes that bore holes into the very fabric of his soul, he did just that.

"I won't… I promise."

"G-good. I…know I can count…on you. You won't mess…up like…I did…"

"Mess up?"

"If I had…listened to all of you…none of this…would have…happened. But I was…impatient. I was…blind." He shook his head. "I should have…just stayed away. That's what she…wanted…"

Raphael threw his arm around Donatello's shoulders and pulled him close. "You're bein' too hard on yourself. You couldn't've known this would happen. And April? Well, she seemed pissed when we woke her up but, when she saw us and noticed you weren't there, her tune changed real quick. It was like she knew somethin' was wrong. The first words outta her mouth were: 'What happened? Where's Donnie?' She was beside herself…" He pinched his eyes closed and took a deep breath, staving off tears. "And I got to thinkin'… April's been with us every step of the way. From scumbags, to monsters, to aliens… and I've never seen her like that… I've never seen her so afraid…"

Donatello's eyelids drooped; his breaths were increasingly shallow and weak. Though Raphael was at his side, his voice seemed far away; only the feeling of his arm draped over his shoulders kept him aware of the goings-on around him.

"She's…safe…that's what…matters…" He rasped. It was barely a whisper. "She'll…be…fine…"

"No." Raphael insisted. He turned away from his brother. He needed to be strong and he couldn't let him see his tears. "None of us will be. Not without you. Ya gotta know that..."

In reply, Donatello murmured something inaudible and slumped against his brother's plastron. In his mind's eye, he could see it—the cobblestone path, the blossoming trees, the lake's mirrored surface—an unspoiled land of color and life, captivating and vast. The breeze smelt of hyacinths and other fragrant blooms; the sun wrapped itself around him like an old friend; and, by the water's edge, in a cloak of white, she stood, awaiting his return.

* * *

Each moment is lived with the promise of the next. Strung together, they create something beautiful yet fragile, boundless yet tenuous—a lifetime. But the process of living is precarious, for all mortal beings must prepare for a moment that has no successor: for when the future withers away and the present—one final, fleeting moment—stretches on to eternity.

At that moment, under a sky of volcanic glass, in the moon's pearlescent glow, two brothers—one at the end of his journey, the other at his beginning—sat holding each other close. In what must have felt like forever that winter's eve, each bore their soul to comfort the other and allay the fear that accompanies uncertainty. When it passed, they would continue on diverging paths—one to a life lain to waste, forever altered; the other to the comfort of another realm—separated by something older than time itself.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

It is my sincere hope that you enjoyed the story. I greatly appreciate those who take the time to read my work! I also welcome all questions, comments, and critiques as well. That being said, I'd like to take a moment to acknowledge two authors whose work serves as a constant source of inspiration to me:

Terraform, to whom this work is dedicated, has written—in my opinion—one of the best DonatelloxApril stories currently available: "Hidden Light 2." If you are looking for a good read, particularly an uplifting one, I can't recommend it enough. ( s/9343149/1/Hidden-Light-2)

And if you're in the mood for another tale of woe and despair, look no further than "I, Alone" by SleepingSeeker. ( s/9750019/1/I-Alone)

Also, please consider reading my other TMNT story "Gypsy." It's not as depressing, I promise! ( s/9823271/1/Gypsy)

Thank you again for reading!

-N.o.S


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